With one Accord we locked the doors.

The other night, OGADE had a drumming gig at a retirement community in Oxford, Ohio. The Knolls, as they are known, is a lovely, modern complex, complete with all the features and conveniences that make for a gracious denouement of life's struggles, assuming one has the means to afford it.

In any case, the performance was followed by a concensus that we repair to a local watering hole for whatever refreshment we might deem pleasing to our palates. J and I were able to park in front of the place, and we shortly ordered our entree and made our way to the patio. As it turned out, the cooks made a small error and duplicated the order, so we were able to share our choice with others of our group at no extra charge.

Suffering from sciatica as she sought to sit at the picnic table, J dispatched me to the car for her folding chair, which sports a large cushion. I went around to the side of the vehicle where I had stored the chair.

Imagine my mixed feelings of shame, anguish and frustration as I peered in the window of the unyielding door, spotting my keys reposing in full, tantalizing view on the rear seat.

It is J's habit to lock everything. Michael Moore, in his documentary "Bowling for Columbine", discovered that Canadians hardly lock their houses, let alone their cars.

I reconstructed the events in this fashion: I had laid my keys on the seat because I had both hands full at the time, retrieving my wallet from a bag on the floor. I momentarily busied myself with checking for tissues, wallet and credit card.

Meanwhile, J had extricated herself from the front seat, pressed down the lock button, and moved on to the restaurant. Satisfied that I had everything I needed, having no reliable short-term memory to speak of, I closed the door. Oh, the power, the synchonization, the irrevocability of electric locks.

Once the error became public knowledge, many helpful suggestions were offered. Most would have incurred considerable monetary loss if not physical damage. Finally, one of our members, M, offered to take us back to Hamilton (some 15 miles) to our house, where J's purse would yield the extra car key.

This solution was much preferable. A few miles toward our destination, it occured to me that the house key was also a taunting component of the incarcerated keychain. The only holder of a spare key was J's daughter who lived in the community on the far side of Hamilton.

"No matter," said M cheerfully. "We'll go wherever."

It was a long journey, taking in not merely the trip to get the key, but obviously a return to Oxford to make use of it. By midnight we were stumbling in, with work looming ever closer the next morning. However, the car was undamaged, and a lesson was learned.

According to this site,

The oldest known lock was found by archeologists in the Khorsabad palace ruins near Nineveh. The lock was estimated to be 4,000 years old. It was a forerunner to a pin tumbler type of lock, and a common Egyptian lock for the time.

That's impressive. Four thousand years of imbeciles locking themselves out of domiciles. Forty centuries of the inconvenience of non-conveyance.

I wonder if Khalil Gibran locked himself out of his studio before he wrote:

Your friend is your needs answered.

Thank you, M...
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Footnote: This article in Wired Online appeared in timely fashion today, although it probably does not apply to the situation described above.

Keynotes

At all times, dangling from my belt, I have at least 15 keys. About four are for the house and cars. I think the rest have something to do with work.

Downstairs, in a plastic small parts tray, I have about as many more. None of them fits anything of which I have any recollection. At some point, though, they must have been important enough to keep. Some of them are keys to old cars, and others might have been keys to houses or apartments; keys that should have been turned in to landlords but were the last thing on my mind at the time.

It's even probable that one or more of these keys was from a previous generation, meaningful to my parents and kept because they were in an interesting jar.

My parents were raised in small towns in Ontario where locking the house was considered the symptom of paranoia. I doubt if either of them ever carried a house key. Why would they need it? If their parents weren't home, the house was open, or, if not, there were relatives nearby where they could stay until the folks returned. Of course, things changed when they grew up and got on their own. Our front door had a deadbolt which I couldn't even turn until I was about ten years old. And it had two buttons inset into the edge of the doorframe to prevent anyone from being able to turn the keylock from the outside when they were inside. Paranoia flowered.

The car I pull up beside in the parking lot at work doesn't have keys. Along the upper lip of the door panel is a series of five numbered buttons. I have no idea how these are sequenced, or if you have to press more than one at the same time. I would surmise that in the unlikely event of an electrical failure, you might be walking home.

One website explains that for any given model and year of any car, a key for that car can open one in 50 of them. Given a parking lot big enough, there could be many cars that could be opened without breaking in. Some of us have had the experience of walking up to a car, putting in the key, and finding that it won't turn. Then we step back and realize, "That's not my car!"

Keys are a powerful metaphor. They are readily understood as symbols of power, permission and privilege. Lose a key and you are bereft of possessions and progress until you find it again. Find a key that is not labeled or familiar, and you have found a useless chunk of metal. Call a locksmith and you'll find out how much a key is actually worth.

And so, I am chained to my keys. There are so many they jingle with every step I take, which may explain how Kaboodle knows it's me after all. I only use one or two of them, only two or three times a day. The others are there to make noise: to let me know that I'm fully dressed. If you don't hear me coming, it's because I've had to go back again. I forgot my keys.